One Day
by Br33zy
Summary: A mother's perspective of her son's first day as a pokemon trainer.


I've been feeling really sad lately. Don't know. It's just ... I guess I'm kind of lonely. I'm not alone, though, which is the funny thing. Past the door and sprawled across a bed is a boy. My boy.

He's an interesting one. Behind the closed door, each and every night, he would pace across the floor in his socks, making sweeping noises across the polished wood planks, the floor groaning underneath his weight. I can hear him down the hall, walking back and forth, the soft sweeping, the loud creaks, and it makes me wonder what exactly he's doing. Then I press my head against the wood door, and I hear him muttering. Sometimes it's about nothing. Sometimes it's something important. But mostly, if not all the time, it has to do with pokémon. It makes me smile.

It's nine thirty in the morning. I've been up since six. Just sitting here, thinking. So much tension I've built up ... It's like it's _my _first day all over again. I should wake him up; I don't want him to panic and rush. I warned him that once he starts traveling, he has to wake up all on his own. As always, he responds with an eye roll. I don't mind it as much anymore - or maybe I do, and I just don't do anything about it. It's futile, and I know he doesn't mean it most of the time anyway. Ten year olds aren't really good with responses. Eh. He'll be fine.

He knows I care. I can't help but wonder, though.

"Five more minutes," he grumbles, tossing in his bed and throwing the sheets over his face. They're blue and cotton and decorated with water pokémon. Just recently he asked if he could change his bedsheets into something more plain, something not so ... childish. I told him just to wait it out and that he'll be out of the house soon enough, and it won't matter anyway. I think I said that because I'd hate to see something of his – of his childhood – thrown out. I want to hold onto it. It's silly of me, I know.

"Well, hurry up. Your breakfast is going to get soggy." The door lets out a loud groan as I close it behind me. Appropriate.

The kitchen table seems so far away, and the hallway so long, so dark, so dusty. His boyhood is revealed to me in pictures that hang on the walls in silver frames. Sleeping baby. Clumsy toddler. Wild child. Ah, one of the frames is crooked. It's the picture of him in his little school uniform during his first day of pokémon trainer school. He looks annoyed. Then again, I'm ruffling his hair in that picture.

Coffee sounds good right now. I always enjoyed watching the steam swirl lazily about. Not that I really need it – er, the coffee, I mean. I'm pretty awake as it is. It gives me something to do ... Well, something to stare at, anyway.

"Mom?"

I'm not sure how much time has passed or how I didn't notice my finger circling the rim of my coffee mug. Either way, I shake my head and look up, staring at the boy across the table.

Of course: messy.

"I iron clothes for you for a reason, you know."

"Aw, Mom!" he whines, defensively grabbing at his wrinkled t-shirt. It's black with the design of a pokéball etched in white in the center. "Those don't look comfortable to travel in!"

"Well, at least change your jeans." They're full of holes and frayed at the end; they won't survive more than a month. "You're going to be on the road for months, you know. Buying new clothes should be one of the things you shouldn't need to worry about."

He rolls his eyes. He always was stubborn. "I know, Mom."

I can't help but stare at him. Staring always works.

Knew it. He gives in. "Fine." His stomps echo as he retreats back to his room. Seconds later, he stomps back, a crisper but stiffer pair of jeans on. "Better?"

I smile. "Much. Now eat."

The chair scrapes against the wood floor as he plops himself in the chair and grabs at the fork, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth, barely chewing. His fingers – fingernails embedded with a thick layer of dirt, of course – wrap themselves around the cool glass of orange juice, and he gulps that down as well, letting out a deep gasp as soon as he finished. Disgusting ... Charming, though.

He rips the corner of his toast and chomps that down before asking, "What time is it?" with crumbs spilling out of his mouth.

I already know, but I look at the clock anyway. The minute hand slowly creeps it hand toward the eleven. "Five minutes 'til ten. You still have time. Slow it down."

He obliges, the devouring of his buttered toast much slower but still messy. My hands wrap themselves around the coffee mug, palms pressing themselves against the heated ceramic, fingers lacing together and brushing past bony knuckles. Hesitantly, I lift the mug to my parted lips and take a drink, making sure not to take my eyes off him. I'm not sure why; it's not like he'll disappear on the spot if I do. He'll be fine.

"Finished!" he cries triumphantly, scooting back in his chair, the legs groaning in protest. His hands rest firmly on the table and he leans his weight on them, his head thrusting forward, cool eyes narrowed. "Can I go now? The professor is sure to give away all the pokémon by now!"

"Relax." Why are my legs so shaky? Was I talking to myself or to him? "Do you have everything in your bag?"

He shifts his arm, shaking off one of the straps and swinging the bulk of the bag forward, zipping it open. "Potions, empty poké balls, money, badge case–"

"Underwear?"

He glares at me, flustered. "Yes, Mom." He zips it back up, swinging it around to his back. "Can I go now?"

"Ah, so much in a hurry. Fine." I'm not sure how I'm still able to stand, let alone walk to the front door, my boy bouncing toward it. His hands grasp around the brass knob, rattling it before swinging the heavy door open. The chirps of pidgey greet us, and rays of sunlight tentatively pass through the threshold and reflect off the polished floor to the wall. It smells fresh and wet, and it tingles my nostrils.

I'm not sure how long we're going to stand here, me and my boy. I can tell he feels awkward, wanting to go to the laboratory but not wanting to ditch his poor mama on the step. I drink in his appearance as he shifts his weight between his legs. Brown hair, brown eyes, a little on the short side, but he'll hit a growth spurt soon enough. There's a thin scar on his chin from when he banged himself up pretty bad while playing outside one day.

I break the sound of chirping birds. "Don't forget to call at least once a week."

Eye roll before looking up at me. "Mom, you remind me everyday. I will."

He'll forget.

I ruffle his hair, immediately causing him to throw his hands above his head in disdain. "Don't miss me too much, you brat."

"Mommm!" he whines, flattening his hair with flat palms and spread fingers. "You'll mess up my hair!"

It'll get messy in five minutes with or without my help.

"Now, Professor Elm's laboratory is just down the road. It's a bit of a walk, but you can't miss it."

"I know, Mom."

"Make sure you treat your pokémon nicely, okay? Love it and care for it."

"I know, Mom."

"I'm proud of you."

He doesn't say anything for a bit. "I know, Mom."

"Good." His arms wrap around me, and I hug him back. All my jitters, all my fears, seem to flow out of my fingertips and into the open air in that hug, even if it's only for a few seconds. He's warm. I think his jitters have gone away for a bit, too, in that hug.

I'm surprised I'm able to pull away, holding onto his arms and staring into his eyes. "All right. Now go. Call me as soon as you get your pokémon." I hesitantly release him from my grip. He'll be fine.

He nods, his hand wrapping around his backpack strap as he jumps off the concrete step toward the dusty ground. "Bye, Mom! I'll call you soon!"

He'll forget, I bet. That's okay. He'll be fine.

I watch him run down the dirt path toward New Bark as I lean against the wooden door frame, arms crossed and a small smile on my face. His form becomes smaller and smaller until there's nothing left. Leaves fly across the rocky surface in the warm breeze, scattering and scratching the ground before being picked up again in the wind, waving and twisting before falling again. A pidgey chirps, followed by another. Another one chirps a little farther away. It's quickly returned with the pidgey closer to me. I like pidgey. I like birds in general. They always seem to keep contact regardless of distance.

They tell me that they grow up so fast. It's a little cliché. Unfortunately, it's true. Actually, I'm not sure if it's unfortunate. I'm proud of myself. I raised a good boy. He'll be fine.

I think I'll just stand here. Only for a bit, though.

He'll be fine. I know it. And I'll be fine, too.

One day he'll thank me. And I'll be glad.


End file.
